Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  He saw the live-wire jolt go through him: a microsecond, well suppressed. He looked back at Marshall across his shoulder, bemused more than anything. Like a guy in a concert line, shoulder-tapped by a ticket-scalper. He eased away slowly in a half-turn, the bat still hanging at his side.

  Marshall said, ‘I thought the sound might be a giveaway. You know: three people, you should’ve heard three sets of footsteps.’ Smiling a little now. ‘Just heading out to batting practice, are you?’

  The butler and Jordan had stopped and turned to watch. The guy with the bat smirked. ‘Get lost, pal.’

  He was a big mound of a guy, six-three or -four, domed brightly by a shaved skull. Muscle turning to fat as it crept waistward through his fifties. No question he posed some damage potential, and Marshall knew he should’ve just left it there and walked away. But there was something about the feeling of holding his ground, facing up to the guy. The same feeling he’d had earlier, out on the street, confronting D’Anton. Even though he was just a man with his hands in his pockets, he felt in that moment aware of his past and his experiences, his conflict faculties, such as they were, and he felt they counted for more than anything this guy had in his favor, bat in hand or not.

  Marshall said, ‘What did you have in mind? Shot to the side of the knee? I’d need crutches for a long time. Or were you thinking something more permanent? Swing at the head?’

  ‘Get lost, pal. Before you find out.’

  The butler said, ‘Sir, I think it’s time to leave.’

  Jordan said, ‘Marshall, let’s get out of here.’

  Marshall said, ‘What I don’t get is why you’re hesitating now.’ He shrugged. ‘We’d all be looking at you after you hit me, so what’s the problem? Stage fright?’

  He took a step closer to the guy. ‘Would’ve felt pretty good, surprising me, right? And surely it’d be even better, looking me in the eye while you take a swing?’

  The guy didn’t answer.

  The butler said, ‘Sir …’

  Marshall said, ‘Yeah, I’m coming. Don’t worry.’

  He kept his eyes on the man with the bat, looked at him evenly, four feet between them. The best move the guy could make would be to jab him: no room for a swing, but a lancing blow would be hard to evade. Same with a headbutt. Marshall would lose some front teeth if the guy connected with it clean. Good as it was to face up to him like this, part of him wondered why he took the risk. Some deeper inclination had pushed him into this. He could’ve come up behind him, landed a punch in his kidney, taken the bat, maybe given it to the butler to hold on to. That would be a nice finish. But there was something even better about doing it like this, letting him know what could have happened, seeing in the man’s face that he didn’t have it in him to try anything now.

  Marshall nodded and said, ‘All right, then.’

  He turned and walked away, following Jordan across the foyer. The butler stayed ahead of them and had the door open as they reached it. Marshall looked back as he went out, saw the man with the bat standing watching him, no doubt seeing a movie in his head about what should’ve happened. And then they were out onto Seventy-third Street, into the cold and the faint scent of mossy stone: the scent of the Upper East Side after rain.

  Jordan said, ‘What on earth was that about?’

  Marshall said, ‘I met him yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah … I figured.’

  He spent a moment putting something together for her, but wasn’t sure it worked – not as she’d hear it, anyway. Some things in life, they only made sense in your own head. He could open a Jackson Pollock jigsaw puzzle, assemble it in faultless sequence, one piece after the other one through a thousand, and the satisfaction wouldn’t equal the fleeting rush of looking that guy in the eye and seeing that he didn’t have enough back there.

  He said, ‘You probably wouldn’t get it.’

  ‘No. I’m sure I wouldn’t.’

  They reached the Tahoe, and Jordan got in behind the wheel again, Marshall up front beside her.

  Jordan closed her door and said, ‘Something about him. He’s lying, isn’t he?’

  ‘D’Anton? Yeah, he’s full of shit.’

  He leaned forward to check his side mirror. The alcove guard was out on the sidewalk, watching them. Marshall said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jordan went left on Fifth, downtown, and then cut back east on Seventy-second Street. She said, ‘You go first.’

  Marshall said, ‘He told us she’s been gone for ten weeks. That’s a long time to be missing. And he seemed pretty relaxed about the whole situation. Wife abducted by the mob apparently, but all he’s done is get Ray Vialoux to look into it.’

  ‘No offence to Vialoux.’

  ‘No, I just mean you’d expect a more dramatic response. If she’d been gone that long and her whereabouts was a genuine mystery, he’d be thinking she’s dead. Especially if he’s heard nothing. And especially given we’re dealing with people who are … you know. They obviously see some utility in the occasional homicide.’

  ‘One way to put it.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know what I mean. They killed Vialoux, they killed the woman across the street from them – Lydia – so why abduct D’Anton’s wife, rather than just kill her?’

  She said, ‘Maybe they’re not as pragmatic as you are.’ She thought about it for a block, and said, ‘Might think they can hold her a while, encourage D’Anton out of whatever business he’s in. Give her back after six months, once he’s in an approved line of work.’

  She was attractive, no question. And he liked the fact there was plenty going on in her head. Good to have someone who could catch and throw it back. What he needed to do was ask her to dinner, but he didn’t want to pop the question too early. Better to wait until closer to the time, make it seem more natural, like it was just the obvious way for the day to unfold.

  He said, ‘It’s still a big liability, keeping someone prisoner. Especially for that long, two and a half, three months.’

  ‘So you think she’s just left him?’

  Marshall said, ‘Would you want to be married to him?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yeah. Me either. And I think his wife reached the same conclusion, and walked out. And he’s spinning it to us as something more, try and find out where she’s gone.’

  There were people on the sidewalk carrying Halloween masks, a couple of guys with bullhorns waiting at a light. Maybe the Fifth Avenue protest was booked for an evening session.

  Jordan said, ‘The question is, did he spin Vialoux the same story.’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Otherwise Vialoux would’ve told me. But he didn’t sit down and say his life was coming apart because of a gambling debt, and he was stressed out of his mind trying to recover a kidnap victim from the Italian mob. Kind of thing he would’ve mentioned.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably.’

  They came to a stop, traffic backed up for the on-ramp at FDR Drive, a two-block waiting line.

  Marshall said, ‘I think she went off on her own volition, and D’Anton asked Vialoux to find her. Or at least try to contact her, and I don’t know … negotiate conditions of return.’

  ‘And now he’s dead, D’Anton’s trying out a different story.’

  Marshall said, ‘Something like that. Although I think the mob angle probably has a grain of truth to it. If he wants us to find her, there’s no point sending us in the wrong direction.’

  ‘So she ran off with the Italian mob?’

  ‘Yeah, potentially. Might’ve come to an arrangement with them. Set her up with a place, and in exchange she gives them D’Anton’s trade secrets or whatever. It’d explain Vialoux’s role, too. If D’Anton knew the mob had put her somewhere, he could’ve got Ray in as an intermediary, sweet-talk them into giving her back, rather than as an investigator, per se.’

  Jordan said, ‘The credit-card detail wasn’t right. He said there’d been nothing
on it since the day before she went missing. She either started using cash for everything, or she swapped over to a clean set of cards.’

  ‘Yeah. Which backs up the theory that she had help. They could’ve set her up with a whole new wallet. New ID, cards, bank account. All she had to do was walk out the door and she’s away. And maybe too they had some agreement they’d look after her if D’Anton sent people looking.’

  She said, ‘Mob version of witness protection.’

  ‘Potentially.’

  They crawled onward. People blasted their horns, as if they could only see one car ahead, and the source of the holdup was a mystery.

  Jordan said, ‘Or maybe she was looking after herself, found a couple of guys to help her with the problem.’

  She looked over at him. ‘Martin Boyne thought it was a woman in the car that night, with the smiley man. We should see if he recognizes her.’

  Ginny answered the door.

  They hadn’t called ahead, but she said, ‘Oh yes – come in, come in,’ as if in her mind a follow-up visit had been inevitable.

  The house smelled of roast chicken, and from the rear Marshall heard a cable news commentator going on about something: a sustained dose of bewildered indignation. The door to the living room was open, and he saw a number of figurines and artillery pieces had been positioned on the model landscape.

  Jordan closed the door behind them. ‘We won’t take up too much time. We just have a photo we want to show your husband.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Let’s see where he’s got to now.’

  She left them by the front door and went upstairs, the wind chime outside touching out a melody, polite and subdued as hold music. Marshall heard muffled voices, a brief back-and-forth, slightly querulous in pitch. Then Ginny came back down with Martin Boyne in tow, the man’s faint smile somewhere between nervousness and strained patience.

  He said, ‘Hello again.’

  Jordan said, ‘Sorry, I know you told us you don’t have much recollection of the man in the car …’

  Marshall showed him the copy of Renee Lewis’ passport.

  Boyne took the paper from him, held it carefully at the edges like some kind of treasured artefact. He studied it in silence for a moment, tilting it minutely this way and that.

  ‘I think …’

  He looked at his wife, and then at the paper again. More tilting.

  ‘I think. Yes, I think I’ve seen this person before.’

  He looked up at Marshall, as if to imbue his words with greater certainty.

  Marshall said, ‘You saw her in the car that night? With the smiley man?’

  Boyne nodded. ‘I think so. Yes, I think this could be her.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jordan said, ‘So what do you want to do with it?’

  They were back in the Tahoe, still parked at the curb outside the Boynes’, just after six pm. Sky dark and starless, lights on all up and down the street.

  Marshall said, ‘It’s no use to the police yet.’

  She seemed to consider that in the quiet for a moment, both of them looking out the windshield. ‘I don’t think that’s quite true. Drug-trafficker’s wife absconds, kills the P.I. sent to look for her. I think they’d find that pretty interesting.’

  Marshall said, ‘We primed the witness. We gave him the context, and then showed him the photo.’

  ‘The context was always going to be clear. Last thing we talked about with him was the fact he saw a woman in the car with the smiley man. Then we show up with a photo of a woman. He would’ve put it together.’

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Jordan said, ‘If you were still a cop, and someone brought you this, wouldn’t you want to act on it?’

  Marshall said, ‘I’d prefer they brought me something that they’d worked on themselves for a bit longer.’

  She didn’t answer at first. Then she said, ‘I’m not sure that view is necessarily representative.’

  Marshall said, ‘You can take it to the police if you want. I’m going to keep running with it.’

  ‘All right.’

  He wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but he decided he didn’t mind. She could do what she liked.

  He said, ‘I need to check Hannah Vialoux’s doing OK. She’s a couple blocks over.’ Then, to make sure she didn’t get the wrong impression, he said, ‘After that, do you want to get some dinner?’

  He’d deliberated over the wording, and felt that was the best way to say it. Get some dinner felt more relaxed and unserious than Have dinner with me.

  She didn’t respond for a second or two, and Marshall felt like he’d driven a car off a ramp: airborne, waiting for the tires to hit the ground again.

  Then she said, ‘Yeah,’ and nodded. ‘OK.’

  Marshall said, ‘Great.’ He studied his side mirror for a second, playing it cool, tires back on the ground but still having to work to keep it straight.

  He said, ‘There’s a place up in Williamsburg that’s quite good. Sage.’

  She was nodding, smiling a little too, like she sensed the cognitive effort that went into his proposal, the myriad options available to him when contemplating a simple question.

  She said, ‘All right. I’d like that.’

  He sat there in satisfied silence – hopefully mutual – while they drove over to the Vialoux place. No luck with parking this time: everything was taken. Jordan told him to go ahead and she’d circle until he was done.

  ‘You don’t want to come in?’

  ‘She thinks Jordan Mora’s a man. I think I’ll wait a bit longer for the gender reveal.’

  She was halfway up the block by the time he knocked at Hannah’s door. She opened it an inch, security chain still attached.

  ‘Marshall, I’m fine.’

  ‘I just wanted to check in.’

  ‘Great. I’m still alive. As you can see.’

  He’d been worried it might go like this. She went to close the door, but he caught it in time.

  ‘Excuse me, let go.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Let go, please.’

  He didn’t want to turn it into a scene. He took his hand off the door. It only had an inch to travel, but it still closed with a slam. He waited there on the top step, not sure if she was done with him or not.

  She opened the door. No chain this time.

  ‘You don’t need to keep checking up on me.’

  ‘I think we’ve covered that.’

  She didn’t answer. She shook her head, looked away, exasperated. She wasn’t blocking his path though, and he figured if he took a charitable view of that, he was OK to enter. He stepped inside. Hannah closed the door.

  Marshall said, ‘Is Ella home?’

  ‘No, she isn’t.’

  Silence for a beat. They looked at each other.

  Marshall said, ‘Are we going to talk about what happened, or is every interaction going to be sort of tense and awkward from now on?’

  She folded her arms, turned away from him. ‘I don’t need you to be a smartass. You can leave if you’re going to be like that.’

  He thought it was a reasonable question, derived from an accurate observation. The problem was, he thought, the skill wasn’t in the insight, but in saying it right, taking the edge off it.

  She said, ‘I guess somehow I just got the wrong idea about what was going on. And … well. It’s been a pretty weird time. My head’s in a funny place.’

  ‘It’s fine. We don’t have to make it … you don’t have to explain anything.’

  She said, ‘You’re the one who just asked are we going to talk about it.’

  True. But only because she’d made a point of seeming affronted. He wondered if she resented him for turning her down, or if she just felt guilty for making a move so soon, Ray only dead a couple days. He’d felt bad for a long time, being with Hannah, betraying his friend. The fact he and Vialoux were police was another layer of perfidy. You don’t go behind the back of that kind of team. And
then on top of all that was the issue of what he’d put at stake. He could’ve broken up a family, broken the thing that he himself might never have. He felt he owed it to Vialoux to not only find out what happened, but keep his hands to himself.

  Marshall said, ‘All I wanted to say …’

  He wasn’t sure if telling her all that would improve the situation or not.

  He said, ‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to check you’re all right.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Give me a call if they don’t send a night watch.’

  She shook her head. ‘I think they’ve given up on guard duty. But like I said, it’s fine. I can look after myself. We have locks … as you can see.’

  She had the door open now. He stepped outside. Jordan had already looped the block in the Tahoe. Hannah watched the car coming along the street on its second pass.

  She said, ‘I’ll let you know about the funeral.’

  She pulled the door closed, paused with it half-open, nodded at the SUV. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  They returned the Tahoe to the rental place and took the subway up to Williamsburg. Sage was a few blocks down Graham Avenue. The Saturday night crowd meant they had a thirty-minute wait to get in, but they ended up with a table for two by the window. Marshall liked being out at this hour in this part of town, full-dark, but early enough the sidewalks were still busy. He liked to keep an eye on the street for security, but it was interesting too, seeing the different characters, the cast that made up a night scene in the city. Bearded hipsters, people with toy dogs and puffy winter gear, like parodies of South Pole expeditioners. Teenagers head-down and eyes-to-iPhone, as if dodging the crowd via directions on the screen.

  ‘You been here before?’ She was looking at the menu.